


Neither Mackerel Nor Herring

by olderbynow



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: A Prelude To Sad Jack Wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7580326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olderbynow/pseuds/olderbynow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspector Robinson sneaks a peek at Miss Fisher’s reading material. SmitCoin Challenge fic. Contains actual smuttish words, just not the Phrack kind. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Also contains minor spoilers for<i>Lady Chatterley’s Lover</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither Mackerel Nor Herring

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Fire_Sign for the fact that this was posted. If she hadn't been ~~such a bully~~ so sweet and persuasive this fic would not have been made public.

He should have known better than to look, of course.

Only, she made such a show of going through her own bloody things. She was dragging out her departure to eavesdrop, obviously, but she also did wave that book in his face entirely too much for it to have been a coincidence. She _wanted_ him to see it, he’s certain of that. And for all he knew, it could’ve been a clue. Anything’s possible, after all, and he’d be remiss in his duties if he didn’t explore every possibility.

So, like a fool (no, damn it, like a _detective_ ) he went and investigated. Let Mr. Cotton out of the compartment ahead of him and then turned straight back around and closed the door on the other man, much as he had done on Miss Fisher a few minutes earlier.

He _should_ really confiscate this book. What on Earth is she even thinking reading this _in public_?! City Central raided a bookshop only last month on the suspicion that they were selling it on the sly. (George Sanderson spending half their meeting the week before complaining about the incompetence of the Customs Office and Jack rather failing to come up with any reasons to disagree on that point, even if he didn’t see the point of confiscating books to begin with.)

They didn’t find anything during the raid, of course, much to the disappointment of some of the City Central constables, who had been hoping to confiscate a copy for themselves - at least if scuttlebutt around City South is to be believed. Which Jack finds that it is, about half the time.

No doubt those young men would be only too thrilled to make Miss Fisher’s acquaintance, and he suspects _she_ wouldn’t mind that, either. Perhaps he should make some introductions, see if he can’t get her off his own back?

He opens the book to the page she has marked and reads a bit. All in the name of research, of course. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little curious to find out just how obscene this obscene book actually is.

_The world is supposed to be full of possibilities, but they narrow down to pretty few in most personal experience. There's lots of good fish in the sea… maybe… but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you're not mackerel or herring yourself you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea._

That seems harmless enough, he thinks, and somehow, on a level that was probably not intended - if his understanding of why this book was banned is at all accurate - not wholly unrelatable. It’s how he feels himself, often enough, surrounded by his colleagues; people who are his equals, should be his equals, _feel_ like his equals, and yet somehow don’t.

He turns a few pages.

_And so with most of the matters of ordinary life… how you make your money, or whether you love your wife, or if you have 'affairs'. All these matters concern only the person concerned, and, like going to the privy, have no interest for anyone else._

Well, really. Jack might not be the sort to have or actually condone affairs, but other than that this seems sensible enough. How people choose to live their lives is their own business entirely, as long as they’re not hurting anyone else doing it. So far he’s not really seeing anything in this book that could cause any kind of trouble, except that it might make people think too much. Which he supposes would be worrying enough to some authorities.

He glances at the closed door, turns to a place near the end of the book and reads on.

_That's why I don't like to start thinking about you actually. It only tortures me, and does you no good. I don't want you to be away from me. But if I start fretting it wastes something. Patience, always patience. This is my fortieth winter. And I can't help all the winters that have been. But this winter I'll stick to my little Pentecost flame, and have some peace. And I won't let the breath of people blow it out. I believe in a higher mystery, that doesn't let even the crocus be blown out. And if you're in Scotland and I'm in the Midlands, and I can't put my arms round you, and wrap my legs round you, yet I've got something of you. My soul softly flaps in the little Pentecost flame with you, like the peace of fucking._

Right. As ridiculous as the idea of censorship is to him, at least now he knows _what_ it is the people who mind, mind.

Suddenly he hears heels clicking closer in the corridor (God, even the way she _walks_ sounds pushy and obtrusive) and exits her compartment quickly, closing the book and shoving it back on the shelf where he found it as he goes. If anyone asks, he never saw it. Oh, how he hopes no-one will ask.

He makes a hasty retreat down the corridor but she catches up with him, clearly determined to wedge her way into this investigation.

He sighs to himself, makes one last ditch effort to get rid of her: “Surely you have something better to do. Another round of gin rummy?”

“I can’t abide playing cards, it’s a complete waste of time,” she says dismissively, and all things considered he can’t honestly say he’s surprised.

*

They’re crouched down by the window in the Hendersons’ compartment, examining the scrap of fabric he discovered and the mark left by Mrs. Henderson’s shoe, when Collins is suddenly by the door, clearly with something to say. Jack ignores him and continues his conversation with Miss Fisher - who is, it would seem, neither mackerel nor herring - determined to put her in her place in spite of that. When she suddenly glances down, his eyes follow hers as if led by strings, down her front and then back up, locking with hers again.

It hits him, then, the book’s parting salute as he closed it: “We fucked a flame into being.”

He clears his throat and gets up, suddenly relieved that Collins interrupted them. He promises himself to never pair the memory of those words with the memory of the glint in her eye at that moment in his mind again.

And, for a few months at least, Jack Robinson is a man of his word.


End file.
